Writing 101: Day Nineteen: Don’t Stop the Rockin’
Today is a free writing day. Write at least four-hundred words, and once you start typing, don’t stop. No self-editing, no trash-talking, and no second guessing: just go. Bonus points if you tackle an idea you’ve been playing with but think is too silly to post about.
Legend of the
Port Townsend Huckleberry Pucker Muffins
One year, for a family barbeque my husband’s cousin Henry was hosting, I used my world-famous, okay, maybe not world-famous, but at least locally popular, coffeecake recipe but instead of including the typical streusel, I dumped in a bunch of red huckleberries and took a batch of these over to Henry’s for his summer barbeque.
Henry and his wife recently finished their A-frame log cabin. It was a handsome cabin. The view of the Olympic Mountains from their backyard is wonderful.
After a while of working in the kitchen, I left and went downstairs, walking past the food tables that were inside the sliding glass doors in the ground floor. The basement opened up to what would someday be the patio. My Huckleberry muffins were almost all gone. I grabbed on for myself and joined the crowd around the fire pit.
The marshmallows weren’t the only things toasting.The men stood around the fire pit in the backyard and as the wives finished up in the kitchen and followed me down, the crowd grew. Everyone was feeling pretty good. All our kids playing in the background, having fun.
The fire pit is unique. Henry made it out of a couple of large, like off an airplane or semi, tire rims. Well, I don’t really know if those things are called rims, pardon my ignorance of everything mechanical, but they are the things that are made of some sort of steel or metal that the tire fits snugly around and then the hubcap would normally cap them. These things have hollow centers and it’s from this center the fire flames.
“Hey, what do you call these things?” Henry asked, holding up half of one of my little cakes.
“Yea, these are good,” one of the other guests said, mouth full, polishing one off.
“I don’t know what to call them.”
Henry, stepped back and onto something, some child’s toy, and lurched forward, regaining his balance, and said, “Hmm.”
He made a big show out of studying the remains of his cake by lifting it up and turning it this way and that, rubbing his chin with his free hand, tapping his cheek with a finger like some college professor. “They have a bit of a tang, these little red berries.” He glanced down at me. “Oh, no offense or anything like that. These are really good.” He stuffed the rest into his mouth, concentrating on that bite as if it were some fine wine, swilling it.
Everyone standing around the fire pit mumbled an audible “Hum” and nodded their heads, looked at me and then back at Henry.
He scratched his cheek stubble. “How about . . . I got it, Port Townsend Huckleberry Pucker Muffins!”
Everyone around the fire pit echoed the name. “Port Townsend Huckleberry Pucker Muffins, Huckleberry Pucker Muffins,” and raised their beers in toast.
And that’s what my little cakes are called to this day.